


Apocalypse

by Ludicrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: Mycroft was forced to make a terrible decision - it left him shell-shocked, sitting unmoving in the library. In the aftermath, he was compelled to see himself as who he really was; a cold-blooded murderer. Someone deserving of sitting in a cell, not a homely library.Then, Greg came home.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 18
Kudos: 126





	Apocalypse

The flat was dark and empty. Mycroft let his briefcase hit the floor. He managed to put the umbrella in the closet in its usual place - between the one for Thursdays and the one for his meetings with Mummy. His shaking fingers fought for a time with the buttons of his coat before he could hang it.

He kept the lights off and avoided on instinct the edge of the couch. He had the strange thought that if he were to collide on it he would pass through unharmed, a phantom in his own home.

Spotting the forgotten mugs on the coffee table, Mycroft drew a breath. It rattled in his chest, disturbing the eerie quiet.

He didn't dare clean them - he wished he could leave them there, forever undisturbed.  _ A museum of our last days together. _

Mycroft walked to the library. His body felt heavy in a way it hadn't in quite some time; weighing him down.

_ Perhaps a book... _ His fingers trailed the covers without stopping. The letters swam before his eyes. He picked up a book at random, desperate to focus on something else. Something other than the thoughts building in one corner of his brain - threatening to take over.

Mycroft sat in his favourite chair. It went pliant under him, welcoming its owner.

The fabric was too soft under his arms. He was undeserving of such comfort. Mycroft's spine stayed ramrod-straight against the chair; he had always had perfect posture.

His eyes wandered over the pages without reading them. He had already forgotten the title he chose. He closed the book, careful not to make any sound. His eyes fell shut of their own accord.

It had been for the best, Anthea had assured him. The man would have done a great deal worse if they hadn't intercepted him at the earliest opportunity.

Mycroft's head hit the back of the armchair. From that angle, Mycroft could have looked at the sky overhead through the window on the roof. Opening his eyes was a struggle he couldn't bring himself to go through.

Beneath his eyelids, the images of the building collapsing kept playing, over and over. There hadn't been any sound on the CCTV. All the same, his brain had come up with shouts of horror as people's homes went down under them.

He had always had a rather vivid imagination -  _ a fatal flaw _ , according to his mother.

Afterwards, Mycroft had insisted upon paying for the funerals. It was the least he could do since he was the reason they were all dead. The murderer, hiding his bloodied hands behind pristine doors.

A shiver made the book fall from his grip. It landed on his foot with a thud.

Mycroft looked down. He knew that logically, he should be in pain. Yet his foot was merely numb with the exhaustion of guilt pressing down on his whole body.

Picking it up seemed like a Herculean task. Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the window, a convicted criminal waiting for his judgement.

Through the view of the sky, Mycroft monitored the passing of time. Anytime now, the sound of a key pressing into the lock would forebode the arrival of Gregory Lestrade. The poor man would then freely witness the wreckage his partner had become.

Mycroft would have to confess to his failures. He hadn't sunk low enough to consider lying to the most honourable man he had ever met. Gregory-  _ Lestrade _ deserved better than his cowardice.

Mycroft let his fingers pass on his wrist, over and over in a semblance of caress. His pulse was slow, at odds with the desperation of his mind.

Once, he had snuck out at dawn to make an angel in the snow. The cold had snuck into his skin. Despite his mother's best attempt at hot chocolate, he had spent several hours frozen to the core. Sherlock had snuggled up against his shivering chest.

He fancied that he could feel the snow under his fingertips, in his veins, around his heart. It would be rather fitting for the  _ Ice Man. _

The fingers of his right hand left his wrist to cling to his hair. Mycroft wished it was over already.

If Greg had come and fled, a semblance of peace would quiet down this restless energy. A fresh layer of snow covering his eyelids.

His arm slumped over his eyes, pressing against the tears threatening to fall. He recalled the advice of Mother;  _ don't let them see traces of your weakness.  _ It was a lost cause; his treacherous eyes kept filling with tears.

So many lives rested in his hands and he had just squashed a handful to get to his target.  _ For the greater good _ , a voice that sounded a lot like Anthea argued. Mycroft couldn't see what good those deaths had brought.

Was sacrificing these lives truly worth the comfort of knowing one criminal had been put to rest?

By tomorrow, he would be convinced it was the right choice. He would go to work and assume the responsibilities of his choices.

He had tonight to wallow in his failure.

The front door opened with its usual cringe -  _ a sure alarm against robbers _ , Lestrade had joked. Mycroft had nodded pointedly towards the alarm system being put up.

Mycroft caught the sounds of the code being entered. It was then followed by an exclamation of pain.

He remembered the briefcase dropped by the entrance with a flash of guilt. It pressed down on his bones, urging him to rush over there, to comfort and apologize. Yet he didn't move a muscle.

He needed a few more minutes - enough to settle, to recall the sentences he had intended to say. By the time he had left his office, he had a whole speech prepared. Since then, he had somehow managed to forget it - his mind was buzzing with a quiet mantra of  _ Gregory Gregory Gregory... _

Gregory's footsteps echoed in the flat, sounding increasingly closer. Mycroft took a breath to fortify himself but otherwise one could have mistaken him for a statue.  _ Frozen to the bone. _

"Rough day, darlin'? D'you-" Gregory stopped at the threshold. He couldn't see Mycroft yet but he had evidently spotted the book resting on his foot. "Christ. What happened?"

Gregory shuffled forward, his steps soundless on the thick carpet. Mycroft itched to raise his head and analyse his expression, the crinkles on his shirt.

That would let Greg witness his fall, his failure in full detail. The thought of those warm eyes resting on the evidence of his weakness chilled him to the bone.

For now, his arm was a suit of armour against Greg's gaze. It hid the contempt he would soon find in his dark eyes.

Rough hands were engulfing his own, bringing his arm gently back to his lap. Mycroft blinked against the brightness of the room - Gregory must have switched on the lights.

The tears that had gathered under his lids were now threatening to fall. Mycroft held onto them - along with the last scrap of his dignity.

"I-" Mycroft's voice broke. He cleared his throat, tightening his hold on Greg's hand. He couldn't bring himself to let go. "Have you seen the news yet?"

The news contained images of a dangerous terrorist being found dead. There would be no mentions of the dead civilians. Too  _ messy _ . Mycroft should have started differently. It hadn't been in the speech he had rehearsed earlier.

It was an evasion of sorts. At least he hadn't offered the wretched man a cup of tea.

Gregory's warm gaze fell on his face like a kiss. Mycroft cherished it - it felt like their last embrace.

"Not yet." Greg's eyes took him in - his slightly dishevelled hair, the redness around his eyes, the pallor of his cheeks. "I didn't know you liked Tolkien."

The last comment was made carefully. Gregory picked up the book at his feet, smoothing his hand over the cover a few times.

Mycroft had done the same thing many times. When he was younger, Sherlock used to relish tales and adventures in faraway lands. The cover was irremediably torn now, despite his best efforts.

"D'you-" Gregory's big brown eyes bore into his. "want me to read it to you?"

Mycroft could picture it easily. Greg's voice roughening to mimic the growl of the dragon then slowing when Mycroft's eyelids drooped. It sounded heavenly.

In a flash, Mycroft remembered his day. The building, the nameless corpses... He had almost forgotten. Guilt gripped his throat.

Wordlessly, Mycroft shook his head.

"Alright." Greg put the book back on the shelf before kneeling in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft let his eyes wander over Greg's face. His half-smile, his salt-and-pepper hair that had grown a bit long, the crinkles around his eyes. He looked as soft as he had this morning when Mycroft was still fooling himself.  _ Thinking I was deserving of your love. _

Mycroft swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"Earlier this afternoon, we got- intel, concerning a certain individual we had long searched for. Last we heard, he had vanished somewhere in the Caribbean. Our contact followed him to the place where he was attending a meeting, of sorts." Mycroft forced his gaze to go back to Greg's eyes. "We had to act quickly before him and his associates split up. I-"

Mycroft realized with shame that tears had begun to crawl down his face. He wiped them away with a shaky hand.

"They believed to be safe because the location of their meeting was a-" Mycroft loathed the stutter in his usually smooth words. "an innocent-looking building filled to the brim with families and-"

Mycroft thought distantly that he shouldn't have stopped smoking. This would be easier with a cigarette dangling between his fingers - it would at least hide the tremor in his hands.

"Darling, look at me."

Mycroft raised his gaze for a split second before going back to studying the paleness of his knuckles where his hands clutched at his knee. He was used to gripping the handle of an umbrella, the weight of it familiar in his hands. The soft fabric under his hands left him feeling off-balance.

"I - I understand if you'd wish to depart. I've already arranged a hotel room for you until you find a more adequate accommodation. I haven't-"

"A few years ago, I let a murderer walk free." Gregory's soft confession startled Mycroft into silence. "I had enough evidence to cuff him. He still had the gun on him."

Gregory let his hand fall on Mycroft's, his thumb sweeping slowly over it. Mycroft's heart let out a quiet sigh.

"I didn't arrest him. From an outsider's point of view, it makes no sense. Why would a policeman let a murderer, one of the bad guys, slip past his fingers?" Gregory sighed. "I still believe it was the right thing to do. You know why? Because not a day goes by where I don't feel grateful for John's presence in Sherlock's life." 

Mycroft's eyes widened in surprise. Of course, at the time he had been made aware of John's actions. He had assumed Lestrade didn't know.

"And you, you have so much more responsibilities than an old copper like me. You basically run the country - don't scrunch up your nose at me, you know it's true." Mycroft let his features relax into his usual blank mask. "It's your duty to make difficult choices, to decide upon our futures. That takes a lot of courage." Greg let his head fall on the arm of the chair, looking up at Mycroft through his hair. "And I admire you for it."

Gregory gently pressed his lips to Mycroft's temple. It was a kiss as light as a butterfly wing; it shattered through the barriers of Mycroft's heart at full speed.

"Now, I don't know what silly lies you've been telling yourself in there." Gregory tapped Mycroft's other temple with his index. "But I'm not going anywhere."

Mycroft's heart expanded to twice its size. He breathed through it, trying to compose his breathing.

"I- realize this is not the quiet evening you envisioned this morning when you complained you'd come back late."

"Sorry but that's rubbish. This is exactly what I want; to hold you and comfort you. Frankly, I'm- honoured I get to do that."

Mycroft turned his head into Greg's neck, inhaling the earthy scent he associated with the man. Mycroft let out a long sigh, allowing his shoulders to droop.  _ When the Sun shines and warms the Earth, snow begins to melt. _

"Thank you."  _ For not giving up on me. _

The words were mumbled against Greg's shirt - Mycroft didn't intend to move for some time.

"Nothing to thank me for, gorgeous. Now, c'me on, we'll draw you a bath and while you soak up I'll prepare some warm milk."


End file.
